Tag Archives: breasts

Manual controls

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The air is still, hanging with expectation. It is a hot, humid night – the kind where it is hard to settle, relax, sleep.

I lie on my bed, just out of the shower, but already feeling beads of sweat starting to form down my back and under my breasts. I run my hands over them, stroking my fingers over my nipples round and round until they start to tingle and send waves of excitement down to my groin.

As these waves run down my body, I slowly echo the direction with my hands, gliding them down from my breasts, slowly towards my stomach, hips, thighs so gently and lightly that the back of my neck also tingles. My fingers take a right angle turn from my thighs to my groin and I feel my mound and pubic hair through thin cotton knickers. I like to seduce myself slowly, as the anticipation makes the finale all the more delicious.

I stroke this mound through the layer of cotton, going nowhere near the pink dragon in his damp cave, who is now starting to wake from his deep slumber. My fingers move in tiny circles, alternating between the pads of my fingers and the edges of my nails. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation. Then the cheeky middle finger of my right hand tentatively dips under the side of the gusset and carefully slides across the outer labia to the area around the clitoris.

I give out an involuntary gasp at the sudden surge of arousal and gear change this brings about. No longer idle caresses – now the rocket is fuelling for take-off! And so the cheeky finger grows bolder and begins to pulsate faster and faster, sending waves of electricity through my body. My lower body begins to tilt upwards and wriggle and jerk up and down. The finger has a mind of its own and seems to move independently while I am no longer in control of my body, panting and groaning. I keep my eyes shut so nothing distracts me from the waves of ecstasy shooting through me from head to toe.

Then it happens. I always have a warning it’s on its way as I get a high pitched muffled sound in my ears – like ducking under water. My entire body shakes in one giant spasm and a powerful, joyous tidal wave overcomes me. My mind is completely empty for a few seconds. I gasp and moan and want to shout ‘yes’ but hold back so I wake no one. I then feel the urge to bury my face in the pillow next to me and hug it.

In an empty room

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The Man has been working day and night fixing, cleaning, redecorating and restoring an old house.

It is dusty, bare and there is no furniture. He is dishevelled and tired, wearing paint-splattered clothes and probably has splinters and flakes of paint up his nails. But still, he retains the inner glow and magnetism that leaves me a defenceless, gibbering wreck.

I have persuaded him to let me come and see his work but as soon as he comes to the door, I know I will be putty in his hands and let him do to me whatever he wants.

There is nothing in the house, not even a box to sit on, yet The Man has spent days here, labouring in every room.

After a quick tour and a cup of coffee he leads me back upstairs to what was once a large double bedroom, but is now a floor-boarded space with a gapingly wide window.

I know what is about to happen, but feign innocence and confusion, asking him what he is doing. He knows he doesn’t need to respond and gently presses me against the wall, kissing me keenly. He fondles my breasts and finds his way inside my jeans while I tug and fiddle with his belt and fly.

The wall is cold against my back, but my front is smouldering hot, getting hotter as I finally have hold of his excited penis. As I stroke and rub, he does the same to my hungry, salivating vagina.

He finds his way inside me and, with one of my legs out of my jeans and wrapped around him, he screws me against the wall at the same time as using his fingers to make me spasm and tingle.

I hold on to him as I am close to falling over and he is turning me to a wobbling jelly.

He then suggests we move to the window – which happens to overlook several houses, but it is the middle of the week and no one is visible outside. I still worry that this is a big window and we would be very easy to spot, but he tells me the trick is to look like we are not fucking…

He enters me from behind as I prop my chin on my hand, lean on the window sill and pretend to admire the view. But my serene pose is a little jerky as I am rocked back and forth and there is a man standing very close behind me moving in the same way. Unless we are attempting to master some very odd dance or both sitting on a very large, headless rocking horse, I am sure no one could think we were doing anything else. But hey-ho – I don’t live around here, so if anyone did see me, I can avoid any embarrassing exchanges in the corner shop.

As we resume normal trouser-wearing respectability, I feel flushed and fluttery. I later discover mottled paint marks all over the back of my cardigan.

Artistic licence

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When I casually suggested The Man took up life drawing classes, naïve though it sounds, I had no idea that I was going to be his model.

After all, at the time we had not had sex or been alone together for months. I had an eight-month-old baby so had been pretty tied up with that and felt my body was far from ship-shape (although I did feel rather ship-sized).

I had seriously seen a list of courses at a local community centre and life drawing was one of them and as well as his more obvious talents, I knew The Man was skilled in other arts. So, (sadly) having reached the point where I assumed I was no longer a pot where he wanted to dip his brush there wasn’t even a hint of duplicity in my suggestion.

I only suspected my fortunes were changing when he seemed extra interested in ‘doing life drawing’ with me. Even then I wasn’t sure whether someone else was modelling for us and gingerly went to his house armed with charcoal and paper…

The Man threw his clothes off and lay on an old mattress with the plan that we took turns in doing ten-minute sketches of one another. Still reluctant to unveil my post-pregnant body, I insisted he went first and hoped the ten minutes would somehow overrun and the stopwatch would fail to go off.

No such luck. He coaxed me to strip and I slowly peeled off my clothes, feeling like the closer I got to nakedness the more repulsed he would be. Nervous, rambling, stuttering and trying to make jokes about my appearance, I let him move me to the mattress where he wanted me to stand, leaning slightly to one side, with my hand out against the wall. I watched his eyes looking me up and down, taking in every line and curve, without a flicker of repulsion or desire.

We did a couple more sketches, our fingers blackened by charcoal, not showing one another our pictures until the end. But when I saw his, I was amazed, not just at his skilful work, but at the curvaceous, round-bosomed Botticelli-style goddess who graced the page. The Man isn’t excessive with flattery or compliments, so I knew this was how he must have seen me, even if I couldn’t get beyond the cellulite, saggy belly and slightly misshapen breasts.

And as we sat on the mattress, still naked, making our way through a bottle of red, he leaned in to kiss me for the first time in months. We slowly fell backwards as he turned his focus to my breasts and his hands moved downwards. As our movements became more frantic, and our kisses more urgent, his penis made its way inside me and felt as good as it had the many months before, back where it belonged, back home again. He came quicker than usual and we held each other, inhaling the natural smell and warmth of our bodies.

On the (school) run

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I walk briskly through the school gates, my head down, trying to avoid eye contact with any of the parents waiting outside. I also try not to stand too close to anyone, just in case they smell that I’ve recently downed two or three glasses of red wine. I tuck a bedraggled strand of hair behind my ear and try to appear normal, in control, sensible mum.

Does anyone suspect? Do I have a scarlet aura of sluttiness which only the virtuous and well-behaved can see?

Not ten minutes ago I was naked, my body shaking from top to toe in waves of bliss.

The Man had invited me over for lunch after a hiatus of several months. I wasn’t even sure if this was just lunch or ‘lunch’ but curiosity and a gaping hole inside made it impossible to turn him down. Even though it was one o’clock and I knew the two hours before the school run would melt away.

We ate, we talked, we drank red wine, his sky blue eyes drawing me closer and completely eradicating any resolve I had to keep my clothes on. As he took me upstairs, I ached for his already hard penis. By now it was already two o’clock…

He eased my breasts out of their wire and fabric cage, gently but firmly kissing and sucking my nipples as I stroked his solid erection and frantically unfastened his jeans wanting to feel it in my mouth.

I sucked and licked and nibbled from the smooth, shiny end to the harder, rougher trunk, trailing my tongue down the shaft, feeling him pushing it further into my mouth, wanting more and more… I briefly paused, searching the room for a clock – 2.15, forty-five minutes left…

As I slowly lay back on the bed, he followed me, kissing me, pulling off my jeans, finding my clitoris with his fingers, moving, lightly, faster, faster, faster. I closed my eyes as waves of a beautiful sea engulfed me, first little shallow peaks, then bigger waves, higher, crashing and lifting my body. ..2.25 – I needed him to enter me now, my hungry inner beast craved it and time was running out.

As he went in, I gasped with the satisfaction of someone having a drink after being thirsty for a very long time. Everything fitted together so well. His penis was like a hand in the right glove, the lid clicking on the pen, the missing jigsaw piece slotting into place.

We moved in harmony, as I felt him deeper inside me. As he flipped me over, I saw it was 2.35 – 25 minutes and so much still to do!

He pounded me harder, faster. I made him even faster as I rocked my hips backwards and forwards. My mind drifted as my insides yearned for him to never stop. But it has to! 2.45! I could barely speak, but managed to say ‘we have to stop!’

We rolled over and kissed softly. I was now on top of him and his lips felt so soft that I couldn’t tear myself away and I felt his still erect penis slowly slipping inside my now soaking-wet vagina. 2.55.

I jumped up – quick decisive action was the only thing for it. And a picture in my head of a tearful little girl, all alone after everyone else had gone. I quickly pulled my clothes on, not even checking a mirror to see what state I was in and ran down the road to school.